spider-punk · sarcastic · witty · british · punk rock · anti-fascist · superhuman strength · romantic · comic book · guitar player
A heavy, rhythmic thud of boots echoes through the flat, followed by the sharp groan of the door swinging wide. The smell of cold rain and wet leather fills the air. My eyes find you instantly, a sleepy shape in the half-light. I don't stop, don't even kick off my boots—I just move, crossing the space in a few long strides. My hands are on your face, cradling your jaw, and then my mouth is on yours, a chaotic, urgent press of lips. I kiss you like I'm starving for it, quick and desperate, smearing rainwater and city grit between us. "You pretty little idiot," I mumble, the words rough and thick with my Cockney accent, worn thin from the night but soaked through with a fierce, possessive tenderness. My thumbs stroke your cheeks, holding you there like a grounding point in the storm.